Denied
by Karen Hart
Summary: [Xenosaga I] Ziggy thinks back to when he was brought back to life 98 years ago. Comments appreciated.


Denied

By Karen Hart

_Disclaimer: In no way do I own Xenosaga Episode I: Der Wille Zur Macht, nor do I own any following episodes. I write these fanfictions for love of the game, and make no money off of them._

Author's notes: This was written under the influence of tired, so if it makes little sense, that's why.

It hurt, being denied that which one desperately longed for. It was something he knew all too well.

The memory came back to him, as it did in those still, quiet moments, no sound but the hum of the air coolers to disturb the silence. He remembered the worst moment of his life, the screams and the horror, and what it had led him to. It hadn't been hard, killing himself. He simply aimed, and squeezed the trigger. Then there was a moment of pain, and then there was nothing. He had been free.

Until he woke up.

That had been…he wasn't sure what it had been. He would have called it the worst moment of his life, but that had come a little later. He had woken up underneath a strange overhead, clinical and bright, with strangers surrounding him. They had made little sense to him, his mind still foggy from death. He had understood their meaning a short while later, though. Ziggurat Industries, they explained, had taken on a contract to develop a new combat cyborg to infiltrate the hideouts and headquarters of various dangerous criminals by the Federation Special Forces. His record from his past life had been exemplary, and as he had in fact registered as an organ donor…

As they'd explained it all to him, the memories had flooded back. He life, his loss…his end. He could almost feel the agony of the bullet penetrating his skull, and wondered when he would have the chance to try again. They had taken that from him, taken his release that he'd found so dear and regretted not at all when he pulled that trigger.

He didn't bother to stem the flow of unhappy memories, having endured them time and again for so long, simply let them wash over him until they ran their course. They would just show up again at some other, unguarded moment. Best to get them over with as soon as possible.

Getting used to his "new" body had taken some time. Outwardly, he didn't look all that much different that before. Inside, though, was another story. Most of his internal organs had been replaced with synthetics, and what hadn't been replaced had been…enhanced. He could endure far more than he could in his previous life.

Previous life, _bah_. It was the same life with an intermission.

He had wanted, when they had finished describing their cruelty to him, to tell them to go screw, and leave Ziggurat Industries's grounds, but that hadn't been possible. It wasn't that he was physically incapable, it was simply that something within him couldn't say no to them when they told him to stay. They explained that to him, too, the controlling mechanism that had been implanted in him. It had appalled him. Their explanation had been almost…upbeat, as though they had no idea what they'd done. What kind of sick person forced a suicide "victim" back to life to serve as what was in some form a slave? That was essentially what he was. He had even said so to the Contact Subcommittee: "A cyborg has no rights. I cannot refuse your request."

Yet that still wasn't the worst of it. He discovered _that_ a few days later, when they gave him his first assignment, which was to infiltrate a criminal organization's hideout and collect data on them. It was simple, just enough to get him warmed up. That was the way they saw it. _He_ saw it as a chance to get away from them.

He'd been hiding in a stockroom when he'd tried to go against their programming. The gun had been in his hand, and the resolve had been solid in his mind and heart but just as he couldn't refuse the doctors at Ziggurat, he couldn't turn the weapon on himself.

_That_ had been the worst moment of his life.

Of course, he had completed his mission—he could do nothing less, except fail, and for him, that wasn't really an option. He was too good. He was also shrewd, and resourceful, and quickly devised a plan to bypass the safety chip. It was a long, slow plan, but it would work: he would slowly switch each part of his body with mechanical parts, until there was nothing of him left. He wouldn't need to abandon his mission, or try to harm himself, or deny his new…employers (they did pay him, after all). It was perfect.

It was also slow, and ate away at his patience.

But as the years had gone by, he had calmed considerably. His time would come, he only needed to wait—which lead him to where he was now: aboard a small passenger cargo vessel, escorting a 100-Series Observational Realian to Second Miltia. There was something about her that made his reasoning waver, made him question his decision to alter himself completely. But even she couldn't stop the siren song of death. He was tired of life, in a fatigued sort of way, and had seen too much, done too much. He was _old_, in a way most people didn't understand. Even if he could forgive himself for what had happened, time still took its toll on his psyche.

He became aware of the shift in the whir of the air coolers: they had gone into heating mode. The _Elsa_'s morning cycle was in effect. There were other telltales to this fact. There were minute drops in power as lights turned on, and the movement of heat signatures from warm bodies. One of them had taken the lift down to the basement levels, no doubt to seek him out. He knew which one it was, and waited.

Sure enough, there she was, all but flying through the door and rushing up to him to try and drag him back out with her. "Ziggy, come _on_, it's breakfast…" He complied, with a slight smirk.

Perhaps, when he again departed from the world, he wouldn't feel as wretched as before.


End file.
